The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  Ranulf smiled at his son proudly. “I fear the boy does not like you as well as I, my men.”

  Corbet recovered his voice. “Well, it has taken almost a year exactly for this son, from the day of your marriage to now. You have won us a few wagers, my lord.”

  Ranulf frowned a moment in puzzlement and then grinned. “I will guess that Dacre has a hand in this. I shall be glad to see him pay. If he seems reluctant, I will gladly help you collect.”

  Lyonene looked away, pretending not to understand their words, but secretly vowing to someday repay Lord Dacre for his presumption.

  Ranulf stepped forward and gently took the boy from her. He took him outside and his men followed. She went to the window and watched as her husband proudly unwrapped the boy and displayed him to his men. She could hear his boasts of the boy’s strengths. It made her warm to see the tenderness, the protective way Ranulf held his son.

  A fire was lit, and Gilbert and Herne went to seek a nearby village so they could have food and clean linens for the babe. Lyonene knew no bath had ever been as welcome as this one inside a crude Irish hut. For the first time she carefully bathed her new little son, admiring and marveling at his perfect features and at the eyes that, as Ranulf had said, grew more green each passing hour.

  They stayed there in that little hut for two days, more to give Maularde’s leg a chance to heal than anything else. Since the knight refused to ride in a wagon, Ranulf and his men rigged a sling for him on his horse so that his leg remained straight on the return journey to Malvoisin.

  They traveled slowly, resting often, and Ranulf was especially attentive to Lyonene’s needs, always ready to offer his help to her. She never asked what had happened to Sir Morell or Amicia, or even to Lady Margaret, but several times she saw Hugo and Ranulf in deep conversation and somehow sensed that they were forever safe from further treachery.

  At Waterford they boarded a ship to return to England. Lyonene did not know if it was her happiness or the fact that she no longer carried a child, but on the three-day trip she was never ill and indeed enjoyed the soft air, the tangy smell of the sea.

  It was a long five days’ travel to Malvoisin, and never had she ached for such a journey to end. Even the ferry ride to the island seemed to take a day. By the time they saw the gray towers of the castle before them, Montgomery was seventeen days old and beginning to gain weight. He slept nearly always, often cradled against his father’s strong arm, oblivious to the many people and events surrounding him.

  Trumpets blared when they were in sight of the castle and the villagers and castlefolk ran to greet them. The word of the child had reached them and they crowded to see him, raising loud, joyous cheers when they saw the healthy crop of black hair.

  “Ranulf!” Lyonene touched his arm. She looked ahead to several people seated on horseback, just leaving the castle walls. She spurred her horse forward, heedless of the guardsmen who immediately followed her. When she was close to the horses, she dismounted and began to run, her arms outstretched. Her mother met her, and their arms locked together and they cried in their gladness at seeing one another again.

  “You are unharmed, my daughter?” Melite questioned. “They caused you no pain?”

  “Nay, I am well and very happy to be home. Father is here also?”

  Melite stepped back and Lyonene embraced her father, who hastily wiped away a tear.

  “You look well, my daughter. You look as fit as the lioness I named you for.”

  She beamed at both of them.

  “And she has produced a lion cub for your grandchild, a green-eyed, black-haired, iron-lunged cub at that.” Ranulf threw one leg across Tighe’s back and slid to the ground, not even jolting the child he so proudly held.

  Melite took the baby and touched the sleeping face. Together they walked through the east barbican and into the inner bailey, where the castle servants waited to see the babe. When at last they entered the Black Hall, it was Lyonene who first saw Brent. He sat alone on a cushioned window seat, unsure of himself and his place among the strangers. Ranulf and Lyonene had been away for over four months, and to a child of six years, they seemed like strangers to him.

  Lyonene went to sit by him while the others took Montgomery and admired him. “Brent, it is good to see you again.”

  “And you, my lady.” He twisted his tabard hem in his hands.

  “Would you like for me to tell you how Lord Ranulf saved me? How he came through my window on a rope, how he chopped wood?”

  Brent’s eyes lit. “The Black Lion chopped wood? I cannot believe you.”

  As she told the story, she saw him relax. Gradually he lost his nervousness and began to feel he had a place. Ranulf came to them, carrying Montgomery.

  “Would you like to see my son, Brent?”

  “I … yes,” he said hesitantly.

  Ranulf knelt to the boy, and while Brent studied the baby, Ranulf watched Brent. “Of course he is small and quite worthless.”

  Lyonene raised her eyebrows at Ranulf’s statement.

  “It will take some men such as you and I, and of course the Black Guard, to train him before he can become a knight. Do you think we could teach him?”

  Brent’s blue eyes glowed. “Aye, I do, my lord.”

  “And as my page, you will watch over him and protect him?”

  “Aye, I will.”

  “Good. Now I must see to my castle. Has all been well since I was gone?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. Walter has let me have my own tiercel. He says…” The boy stopped at the door and waited impatiently for his master.

  Ranulf gave his son to Lyonene, and as she held him, her husband put one hand behind her head and pulled her face to his to kiss her softly and lingeringly. “I cannot believe the child is mine, for I vow it had been more than a year since I last touched you.” He kissed her again, a movement from the child keeping him from crushing her to him.

  “Lyonene,” Melite called.

  Ranulf stepped away from her. “What think you they would say if I threw you across my horse and carried you away?”

  She leaned near him, one hand on his chest. “I am willing to test their words, whether they be anger or joy.”

  Ranulf touched her hair, his thumb grazing her eyelash. “You are a wanton woman. Who would feed my son?”

  “We could take him with us.”

  “You are a devil to tempt me so. Have you no honor?”

  “My honor is you, and I would follow you wherever you led.”

  “Lady Melite, come and take this daughter of yours away. I find her still to have no manners before her guests.”

  Melite smiled from one to the other. “I fear I must defend her. She was ever a good and sweet child before she looked at your lordship.”

  Lyonene giggled.

  His eyes sparkling, Ranulf shook his head as he looked from his mother-in-law to his wife. He paused at the door for one last glimpse of Lyonene as she cooed at the child, smiled peacefully as he harkened to Brent’s demands and followed the boy.

  Melite did not need to ask after her daughter’s happiness, for it showed on her face—her contentment and joy with her husband, her son, her home. Melite was glad to see the peace and harmony that reigned.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The news of Lyonene’s safe return spread quickly throughout the kingdom, and guests began arriving. She ran to Berengaria’s arms as they clasped one another, joyous to see each other again. Travers was followed by his son, a seventeen-month-old boy who looked exactly like his mother and thus was a pretty child. It was a contrast to see the angelic boy near the ugliness of his father.

  “I know what you think,” Berengaria whispered, “and I am glad also he has the look of me. But come, I would see what that great black husband of yours has produced.”

  Berengaria exclaimed over the green-eyed child with pleasure, as everyone did, and Montgomery already seemed to preen under their affection. “He has the look of his father already,” Berengaria sai
d, laughing.

  When Ranulf returned to the castle with Brent, he walked beside Dacre and the two men laughed at some jest together.

  “What have you done to him?” Berengaria asked of Lyonene. “He is changed and is not the same man I have seen for years.”

  Lyonene shrugged. “He is always like that with Lord Dacre. They are no older than Brent when together.”

  “Nay, you are wrong. I have seen Lord Ranulf and Lord Dacre wrestling with one another since I was a child, but never was there such a light in your husband’s eyes. You have tamed this Black Lion.”

  “Nay, I hope I have not. If I remember correctly, there are some fierce ways about him that I enjoy overmuch.”

  “Remember?” Berengaria questioned. “The boy is near a month old.”

  Lyonene told her friend briefly of the months in Ireland.

  Berengaria shuddered. “I do not think I wish to hear more of your time in Ireland. I would not like to be away from my family for so long. But I think you most fortunate in your husband. Had I been so stupid as you, I think Travers might have left me to them.”

  Lyonene blinked a few times at the blunt words, but then agreed that the idea had plagued her a bit. Their words were halted by the entrance of Dacre and Ranulf.

  “Here is that wife of yours and still as pretty as I remember. Do you draw a sword on me again if I touch her?” Dacre asked.

  “If I challenged you, it would be the end of you,” Ranulf said quietly.

  “We shall have time to test your words.” Dacre laughed and then turned and whirled Lyonene in his strong arms, tossing her into the air before pulling her close to lustily kiss her mouth. She cast one glance at Ranulf, and her suspicions were founded; her husband scowled blackly at them, his body held rigid in an attempt to control his emotions.

  “You are a sweet little morsel, almost as fine as my Angharad.”

  Lyonene pushed at Dacre’s shoulders; his hands were on her waist and her feet were high off the floor. “And how is your wife, Lord Dacre?” she said loudly. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “Unhand me or I shall tell everyone something Lady Elizabeth told me of you.”

  Dacre stared at her a moment, then set her to the floor and began to laugh. “Were not Angharad the size of my horse, I would have brought her here and you would be a fitting match for my hellion. Did you hear this bit of a girl your wife threaten me? Look at her.” Dacre stretched his arm above her head. “She dares much.”

  Ranulf smiled at his wife, then looked back at his friend. “I would rather know what Lady Elizabeth says of you.”

  Dacre’s face lost its smile. “Hmmm. Well, I think I might not like that known just yet.”

  Ranulf threw back his head and laughed. “We will see my son and then my men wait for you. I believe there is a matter of some gold to be exchanged.”

  Dacre thumped his friend’s back. “This is one debt I am willing to pay most eagerly, for in truth I did not think you man enough to do it.”

  They left the solar in friendly argument and shortly the room was filled with women. Lucy, who had cried for hours at Lyonene’s return, Kate, Melite, Berengaria and Lyonene. They spent happy hours as they prepared the baby’s baptismal gown.

  Lyonene still thrilled at the delight of nursing Montgomery and found a peaceful sharing between herself and the child. He grew bigger each day, his eyes searching faces and lights that loomed above him. Already he was beginning to distinguish his mother from all the other hands that held and touched him.

  Malvoisin was overrun with guests and their retainers. Mattresses were brought from the cellars and aired and set up throughout the houses. The bedrooms of Black Hall were filled, and as was fitting, beds were set inside Ranulf and Lyonene’s chamber. At night the curtains to their own bed were drawn, but they were much aware of the sleeping noises of those around them.

  Lyonene snuggled her nude body next to Ranulf’s, her breasts against his back, one leg across his thighs, her soft skin delighting in the hard, hair-covered surface. He turned to her quickly, pulling her close, her soft, round body in direct contrast to the steel-muscled Black Lion. His hand roughly caressed her, savoring the creamy skin, the fullness of each curve.

  Lyonene moved her hips closer to him, feeling his ardent desire for her, and her excitement increased, her hunger for him, the pent-up yearning built up over the months of separation. She ran her hand down the long muscles of his back, her palm rubbing hard, her nails curled, unrestrained in her growing passion. She ran her mouth across the enormous roundness of his shoulder, touching the hot bronze skin with her lips, her teeth, her tongue. She nibbled the side of his neck, moving beside him, her breasts taut against the thick hair of his chest, the tickling softness sending shudders through her body.

  She traveled to his earlobe and felt his breath against her hair, deep, quick breaths. She pushed him back against the sheets, rubbing her thigh between his legs, exalting in her power over him. Her hand trailed along his arms, feeling the restrained power, the strength that she alone could control, could use to her own advantage, for her own whims and fancies. Her breasts brushed against his chest, the pink peaks just grazing the skin, the soft hair. A low, deep, harsh sound came from her throat as she touched the tip of her tongue to his parted lips, and the sound changed to an animal laugh, guttural, as she felt him quiver beneath her. She bit his lower lip, twisting it, touching the fullness of it with her tongue, drawing it forward, purring, caressing him, her body moving ever nearer its goal.

  “I am hungry, Melite. Fetch me some food or else send one of the maids to do it, but I cannot sleep in a strange place when I am hungry.”

  William’s words reached them inside the curtained bed. Lyonene, through instinct, immediately rolled from atop her husband at the sound of her father’s voice. Ranulf pulled her back to him, but a loud crash brought his eyes open, stilled his hand on her hip. He sighed and clenched his teeth together in an effort to calm himself.

  “Sir William, may I be of assistance?” he called through the curtains.

  “Nay, Lord Ranulf, I but meant to find the door and then the kitchen, but it is strange here and I cannot find my way.” Another crash punctuated his words.

  “I must go or your father may destroy my hall as well as my pleasure this night.” He looked in accusation to his wife. “You should be glad he is your kin or else I might throw him out my window and be done with his clumsy ways. I will dress and join him in his meal. I think it takes me a long while to sleep this night.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but when her hand slipped to his stomach and caressed it, he drew away from her. “Nay, Lioness, I will not perform while your father thrashes about like a wounded boar.”

  He stepped away quickly and left her. Lyonene slammed her fist into the pillow and then began to pray forgiveness, for the oath she had thought had been directed against her own father. She was asleep when Ranulf returned, a heavy smell of wine on his breath, and only sighed peacefully when he drew her to him and also slept.

  The household was awake early the next morn, and Lyonene felt herself drawn into a whirl of preparations for Montgomery’s baptism. In the afternoon the solemn ceremony was held in the chapel of the Black Guard’s hall, the sunlight filtering through the beautiful windows of colored and leaded glass. Berengaria gave the quiet babe to Father Watte, who immersed him in the blessed water. Montgomery set up a loud howl which made Dacre grin at the strength of the child’s lungs.

  Later, in the Black Hall, gifts were given, cups set with jewels and gold plates. Lord Dacre presented his godson with a saddle, small, made for a pony, with the leather embossed with the lion of Malvoisin. But of all the gifts, the favorite was Ranulf’s gift to his wife. It was a tall, covered beaker, the top and bottom of gold filigree, set with emeralds, pearls and diamonds. The belly of the vessel was rock crystal, hollowed and etched with a scene of a lion and his lioness sitting quietly, surrounded by four romping cubs. The gold foot was inscribed with words of Ranulf’s love for his
beautiful young wife.

  As Lyonene held the exquisite beaker and read the inscription, she raised cloudy eyes to Ranulf’s. “So you will not forget again,” he said, answering her unasked question. She put her hand behind his head and drew him down into a kiss that both showed her gratitude and told of feelings much stronger than gratitude.

  A cheer filled the hall for both the birth of an heir and for the happiness of the day.

  At night, Lyonene fell into bed exhausted, alone, while Ranulf sat and drank with Travers and Dacre. She felt his reluctance to join her in their bed was due to the previous night’s happening and tried not to wish their guests gone.

  On the third day, entertainments were planned. William caught his wife and daughter in the Great Hall. “I wish to see this son of mine at his work. He has promised to instruct me in the proper training of my men.” He put an arm around Lyonene. “You have done more than well, my daughter. He is a fine man and does you proud.”

  “Aye, he does, father.”

  Lyonene spent the day with her mother and Berengaria, and she promised them both cuttings from King Edward’s roses. It was after dinner, when the house was quietest, that a boy brought her a message.

  “A man gave it to me and said it was from Lord Ranulf.”

  She smiled at him and sent him to the kitchen as she hastily removed the tablet from its pouch.

  I wait for you at the spring north of Calbourne Church.

  Ranulf

  Her heart fluttered like a young girl’s, not at all the heart of a respectable wife and mother. She tossed the pouch on the bench. She could see no one or she knew that she would not neglect her guests for a love tryst with her husband. Quickly she went to the stables and bid Russell saddle Loriage for her. She had not ridden the stallion since her return, and even the feel of the black horse’s power further excited her as she hurried towards Ranulf and the joy she knew awaited her.

  She laughed at herself as the hood fell away and the wind tore the sedate circlet and fillet from her head, tangling and tossing her hair in wild, abandoned disarray about her shoulders. It was wondrous to be free, free of demands and duties and responsibilities, and to be hurrying toward her lover, their meeting enhanced by its secrecy and forbidden air.